Work Text:
The first recorded case of shadowed tibia was in an adolescent with aggressive traumatic damage.[1] Various medical interventions were attempted, including light infusion, shadow suction, and surgical Prime Source strengthening, but none were successful.[2][3]
. . .
There was so much spinning around in his world. Alvar. Matchmaking. Sophie.
And this little wooden stick somehow felt like a bigger deal than any of the rest of it. It was stupid. So stupid.
But he thought he could snap a hundred of them, and the scattered pieces still wouldn’t satisfy the need bubbling inside him. The need to destroy the problem—not to lean on a stick and pretend it would make it go away.
He had his entire life in front of him. Years so numerous that no one knew the number, thousands so great that no one knew the cost. And for every one of those years, he would bear this pain in his leg.
And their solution was a cane.
. . .
Immediately after the two-week observance period, 70% of elvin patients reported that the single point canes and forearm crutches had significantly improved their independence and quality of life (Figure 2). In the one-month follow-up survey, only 10% of respondents had continued using their mobility aids “at least once per week.” The most common reasons given for the discontinuation of use were “societal pressure” and “guilt” (Table 3).
. . .
“How would you have felt if I refused to wear a nexus after almost fading away?” Sophie screwed her expression tighter, like it was the last thing holding her together.
Fitz winced. “It’s not the same. I’m not going to disappear. I can handle it.”
“And I couldn’t?”
The words slammed into the conversation, forcing it to a halt.
. . .
In her cascade poem Elaboratory Elves, Tiya Allia plays on the word elaborate, arguing that the elves are elaborate in lifespan, demeanor, and prejudice. It reads:
Elaborate elves elaborate,
Plain elves do not tolerate,
“Perfect” lives we cultivate.
Longer lives we contemplate,
So longer times we have to wait,
Elaborate elves elaborate.
Beauty we shall cultivate,
Not ugliness in aggravate.
Plain elves do not tolerate.
Color, gender, we do not separate;
To subjugate, we complicate—
“Perfect” lives we cultivate.
. . .
“Your scars are a part of you,” Biana said softly, tracing a hand over his cane, where it leaned by the door of his bedroom. “But you keep pretending they’re not.”
Fitz stared at his hands, tracing a finger over a knuckle where a bramble injury used to be, until enough rounds of piquatine had melted it off.
“I’m sick of this.” Biana let the cane fall back against the wall with a sharp clack. “Don’t you know you’re just making it worse? Don’t you care?”
Fitz looked up, glowering. “It’s none of your business.”
“Yeah? That’s never stopped you before.” Biana shook her head, her hair falling into her eyes.
“It hasn’t stopped you either.” Fitz met her eyes and let the light pass through him, blinking out of visibility once.
Biana bit her cheek to control her expression. “Everything’s Vacker business. Every Vacker. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?” She glanced back over to the cane again.
Fitz squeezed his wrist, the skin paling as he forced the blood away.
“I hate them.”
. . .
Journal Entry #4628:
I think that one of the reasons pain is so consuming is that the elvin way is to be consumed. When I am here with the ogres, I see quick resolutions. They tend to take problems head-on, delving into research or resolving interpersonal issues with fights that flare up and die down with equal intensity. That isn’t to say the ogres are never consumed; only that they are more… direct, in their resolutions. Elves are not. They let things fester, and not to explore what the rot brings to light. No, the elves are consumed by guilt, by pain, because they see little point in resolution when they have infinity to let the pace continue—but most of all, because to halt the rot would require them to no longer hide within it. It would require them to be seen, without the cover of glamor to hide beneath. And that is a price that only a rare elf is willing to pay.
It is why, I believe, I will never return to them. I cannot be among the whispers when our world needs a shout.
Cadence Talle
. . .
Fitz stepped up to the Leapmaster, cane in hand.
“Foxfire.”
His voice sounded strange to his own ears. Too loud. Too shaky.
Too often misused over the past few weeks.
The crystals clicked and spun, sending out the familiar beam of light, and with some trouble, he stepped forward into it.
As campus came into view, he had the overwhelming feeling that nothing would ever be the same again. But he’d had that feeling for weeks.
What was strange was that, as campus came into view, he had the overwhelming feeling that it hadn’t changed.
Young elves in bright uniforms milled about, laughing and gossiping, scurrying around with books in hand. People looked at him, like they always had. Some people looked for far too long, like he was a drink they’d been craving, and some far too short, like the sight of him burned them.
But none of that was new.
He walked across campus, footsteps in tune with the cane beside him, and he felt eyes on him.
And so the day went—as usual.